


The Cold Hill's Side

by The Spike (spike21)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Horror, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:23:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spike21/pseuds/The%20Spike
Summary: Mycroft wakes from the tarry darkness of the tranquilizer blinking into excruciating blue-white light.





	

Mycroft wakes from the tarry darkness of the tranquilizer blinking into excruciating blue-white light. He wants to shade his eyes but his hands are pinned to his sides and there is a weight across his hips. Then something moves in the light and Euros’ face looms above him. Adrenaline floods him. Mycroft panics, lets out a strangled shriek and flails trying to get away, but he has no leverage. He’s flat on his back on the warm smooth floor of the specially designed, ultrasecure cell with Euros straddling his hips: her knees pin his arms. She is staring down at him, her mouth unsmiling, eyes bright and pupils dark.

There is nothing visible behind her mask.

The terror doesn’t ebb but Mycroft gives up struggling, slumps back to the floor. He always knew this would happen. It’s almost a relief that it has. That’s a lie.

“Brother,” she says and it sounds so final. He can’t quite catch his breath. Maybe his heart will just explode. Ha! He’s never had that sort of luck. Sherlock’s luck….

Ohh…

Sherlock. 

He didn't know there was a feeling more abject than terror but there it is. He doesn’t even have a name for it. _Lie._ It’s guilt. _Lie._ Shame. His face flushes, belly sinks. He turns his head to the side to bare his throat. _Oh, the lies. He doesn't want to see what's next._ She’s still a shadow in his periphery. Useless.

“Just… get it over with,” he pants. “Please.”

Another cold shot of adrenaline at the change in weight as she leans forward. Her long hair tickles his cheek and jaw, and he cringes against the anticipated slash/bite/crush. She presses closer, lips by his ear. The puff of air warm from her lungs makes him shiver.

“Thank you,” she says, “He’s perfect.” 

He can’t process this new information at all. Then the weight is lifted off him and there is cool, flavourless air where Euros had been. She’s standing over him now. Then she’s far away.

“We can’t stay,” she says. “But you can. You will.”

He does. 

Lying on the floor, his gaze drifting over the pale surfaces of the prison cell, its sourceless blue white light, its warm floor and no glass in its front wall, Mycroft has time to review every visit, every conversation, every word shared between them over nearly 25 years. How had he ever thought he was immune?

_Silly._

_Because I told you so._

That’s right, he remembers now. 

_You’re so clever, brother mine._

_You know what to look for._ _You’re the only one who ever sees._

He swallows the ropy saliva that fills his mouth. There is a feeling worse than shame, worse than death. He doesn’t have a name for it. It’s likely no one does. 

Some time later he feels the thump and thud of explosions through the floor under his back and then men in Royal Coast Guard uniforms with real guns come running in to secure the room. 

“Are you alright, Sir?” someone asks. “Did she hurt you?” 

“No,” he says, finally able to get to his feet, straighten his rumpled clothes, his hair. his shoulders. “Just a bit disheveled, that’s all.” 

Inside his head the truth unspools and tangles round itself, untold. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still processing the S4 finale which stirred a lot of disturbing emotions in me. This may be part of something larger. Hopefully something that gives me some decent closure but at the moment I'm stuck in the horror and I think this must stand on its own for now.
> 
> Title from the ubiquitously quoted Keats poem: "La Belle Dame Sans Merci"


End file.
